An Old House Poem by Andrew W.K. Yip

Reflection is like a house.
It has many faces, spaces and dimensions.
It may have a garret for mouse or a shed for cows.
But it can also shine like the king`s mansions.

The house has a view from its top - both front and behind -.
A perspective of reality - curving and arching with time,
Those fleeting years that the swarming locusts find.
Leaving an uncelebrated present that`s tenuous and least sublime.

The house has windows, open like our mind and soul.
The shutters shook, the drapes drifted and in flew fiendish fate -
The chattels of hopes and dreams it boldly stole,
What is left are odd pieces of baggage in a sorry state.

The house has wooden doors with bolts to secure.
Some had come, though unwelcome, briefly to stay.
Then the lights went out; the place grew grim and obscure.
The old house, weary and worn, is closed to wait for the day.